


just talk to her

by Thymolphthalein



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH Rarepair Secret Santa 2018, Alternate Universe - Gakuen, F/F, Gakuen Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymolphthalein/pseuds/Thymolphthalein
Summary: Vietnam has no idea how to romance.





	just talk to her

What was one supposed to do when faced with “ _definitely more than platonic_ ” attraction for somebody? Vietnam had no idea. Of course, she had heard about it—plenty. Taiwan spoke often of wanting to have a cute partner, but Vietnam wasn’t so sure.  

For starters,  _what did one do_? Did they just say “hey I really admire you, would you mind being my girlfriend?” Was it that simple? If it was, then why was she so nervous?  

Taiwan introduced her to Romano, reasoning that an Italian ought to have some idea of what to do. Their conversation went okay: if Vietnam saw a pretty girl that she was interested in, she was supposed to act natural, and invite her out for dinner. Yeah. 

Not a chance.  

She ended up following his “example,” and resolved to awkwardly ignore the matter for as long as possible. Nothing could possibly go wrong. (Except Taiwan’s good-natured warning that this was their last year of school, so if she wanted to make a move, she’d have to do it soon. But—Taiwan had nudged Vietnam as she had said this—there was a ball coming up.)  

Vietnam sighed. She  _did_  want to date Belarus, but there they’d never had really interacted outside of class and “Women Will Take Over the World” Club. It was doomed to fail. She’d rather reap the consequences of a missed opportunity over humiliation any day. 

* * *

 Being in their last semester, Vietnam  _supposed_  it was natural for the Nations to run wild. She didn’t understand exactly  _which_  psychological phenomenon caused this. Maybe they were bored? Perhaps they were cursed.  

But they were starting to get on her nerves. Their usual antics didn't bother that much—some of them were just a bit loud, others invaded personal space. Some of them she quite liked. On the whole, they were a good lot.  

How a simple lunchtime could turn into a warzone, Vietnam would never know. Food flew left and right, bread being used as swords and whatever atrocities came out of England’s lunchbox being the deadliest weapons of them all.  

Not everyone shared the same passion as the participants. Japan just sat there awkwardly, and Taiwan shielded herself behind an umbrella. She was probably on her phone. (The concerning thing was why Taiwan  _had_  an umbrella, as it was sunny.)  

No food was being thrown in Russia’s direction. He looked torn, half of him taking pleasure in the free entertainment, and the other half wanting to strangle something. Belarus was half-next to him, shielding him from the unlikely event of a stray bit of food flying his way. While no food did, Vietnam was sure that Russia appreciated the sentiment. 

Belarus’s eye twitched. Her fingers jerked.  

‘Would you bitches  _shut up_?’ 

Her fists thumbed on the table; her chair scooted back. She towered over the nations. 

The room was silent. A stray slice of pizza slid down the wall. It made an odd little  _squelch_  as it hit the floor. 

‘Thank you.’ She sat back down, glaring. 

Vietnam watched her with awe.  

Damn.   

She was hot. 

* * *

 On the outside, Vietnam appeared calm and collected. Of course; she had a reputation to maintain. It was also very good for making a sales pitch, and getting extra funding. On the inside? A mess. An indecisive mess.  

It had been a week. A week of trying to ignore the problem. It itched at her, like sap through perfectly good wood. If Vietnam could build  _robots_  in her spare time, there wasn’t any reason why couldn’t talk to Belarus? Right. 

Wrong. It was awful. Vietnam didn’t know what to  _say_. They were sitting by the fountain. Belarus had taken her shoes off, and was kicking her feet in the water. She turned to Vietnam. 

‘So?’ 

Vietnam opened her mouth. And closed it again. What was something people spoke about? Hobbies? Yeah, hobbies. ‘What do you do in your free time?’ 

‘Well...’ Belarus ran a finger through her hair. ‘I fuckn’ love baking. And taking spooky photographs. Used to scare Ukraine shitless. I’m a gymnast, but everyone knows that.’ 

‘Would you like to come over to my dorm, and bake together?’ Vietnam backtracked hastily—‘Or you could show me your routine?’ 

‘The dorms are too small.’ Belarus studied Vietnam. ‘I’d love to bake. On Sunday?’ 

Vietnam nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. It was a date! 

(Could vacuums eat all the capacitors in the carpert because it would be  _really awkward_ if Belarus stood on one.)

* * *

 (The vacuum got them all.)

Vietnam discovered: baking was hard when one was distracted. She also discovered: Belarus was amazing (and so damn distracting). Her hair gleamed, and she could mix almost anything without breaking a sweat. Whatever came out of the oven looked, and smelled, amazing.  

‘Oi. Viet.’ Belarus tapped Vietnam. ‘You’re supposed to be adding the eggs, not staring at them.’ 

‘O-oh. Sorry.’ Vietnam blushed. She cracked the eggs and stirred them in. ‘Sorry, I just spaced out for a moment.’ 

Good save. Real smooth. 

‘Here.’ Belarus took the bowl and finished mixing. She worked her magic and shoved the thing into the oven. ‘What are your hobbies? I never did get to ask.’ 

‘I like making things.’ Vietnam gestured around her. ‘Robots, computer programs, carvings. Small things, and sometimes I do stuff with fabric. Nothing extraordinary.’  

‘“Nothing extraordinary?” Said the person who won the Halloween dress-up contest, and make that killer robot.’ 

‘It doesn’t  _kill_  things—but you won the gymnastic competition three years running, and you’re the president of the photography club.’ 

‘Hey. You’ve got to embrace your talents.’ Belarus grinned. It wasn’t wholly innocent. ‘Besides, you’re cute.’ 

‘I object to that statement.’  

‘Sure you fuckn’ do.’ 

The oven beeped. Belarus took out their creation and plonked it on the bench. It smelt wonderful. She took out her phone. 

‘No—Belarus,  _please.’_ Vietnam protested. ‘I’m not photogenic, and whenever I have a photo taken of me, I find a way to ruin it.’ 

‘You don’t have to be photogenic. You just have to be in the photo. It’s our baking; our photo.’ 

‘But who’d  _want_  the photo? It’s going to be awful.’ 

'I’d want it.’  


End file.
